Grooves in finger skin
like folds in tissue paper
and twisted intestine,
snaked by forces whose
appetite laces life
with material marks.
The lobes locked together,
as wrinkled hands hold
each other, as if halves
of a walnut linked
inside a lumpy skull
could think themselves
though we no longer feel it.
What the eye sees are the softest voices,
so the ears, fingers, tongue, nose
merely hear faint echoes.
We wrap up the unsightly torso,
touch handles made for touching
although we shy away from being
The body become
a residual limb or organ
like an appendix,
dangling from the crown,
what the educated cut out
for the possibility of diseases.
A labyrinth of rose-petal red
wrapped around purple-black ribbons,
like jellied preserves, the muscles, brain,
tissues, veins: already reading the world.
We should relearn to listen;
sense is a synaesthetic experience.
life folds itself into itself, playful.
variable, the tape wound around
and turning on itself
like a record,
the lyrics only echoes.
Matter is its value,
soundly given to those who listen.
Poet, first you must be
in your own body
to sing freely,
then you can see yourself
Withered willow tree—
a pond in winter.
Milk sugars, conscience, honey;
thick cream lightens strong coffee.
deep wells drilled into bedrock,
water nothing drinks.
Petrified wood black as coal,
living pulp transforms to stone.
Roots white as lightning—
nightcrawlers pulled from the earth
dried up with sunlight.
A mole burrows in the dark—
earth’s shadow swallows its sun.
I am a womb and
a warm hand.
Alcohol in the glass, from sugar.
Lightening-struck loose sand;
nothing apart from magic.
I am not a philosopher,
but an empathizer, they say;
Can they not be the same?
Am I bequeathed, beneath,
Do I not bear all burgeoning deeds?
What does not spring from me?
I am the pavement surface ice cracks
through which dandelions grow,
the tarnishing silver in the safe,
the gold glint in the panther’s eye,
the dark forces that bind time to space.
I am the juicy pulp and the wine,
unrefined by ferment and press.
When eye orders
to eye itself,
it says to itself:
But, what appears in the dark?
A bow when bent is called intent,
the surface wet though solid,
A hole in a kaleidoscope.
I eyes the black-veiled well:
what turns returns, and then discerns
what’s dropped therein—
Whose black pit is this
ringed round in blue
like oiled aquamarine?
What is there between us two?
It moves as I do, see
what eyes think I believe.
The sight of me arresting
the mind conceives—rings—
three of me, two of you.
Eye circles back at the chiasmus—splits:
two teardrop points
that conjoin, a line of sight
crossed, perspective lies outside
as the signal signifies
inversions adroit, but not untrue.
The occipital seated serpentine:
as a bow ties together
what orbits between,
minds the gap into that
which is drawn up:
around and through.
Where we meet is
a fork with two feet;
a branching tree—lightening
before we we never knew.
I am an other
when eye possesses you.
My life in you becomes a living dream—
reality without a gravity.
between the spheres I cannot find a seam
dividing good from good’s depravity.
Between our eyes a portal opens wide,
a hall of mirrors, in yours I see myself,
and there love’s vertigo makes groom and bride
become a single, god-like plural self.
With all the passion wrought in earth’s creation,
we write in flesh a mythic genesis,
but from the fear and pain comes pure elation,
that gives a face to epigenesis.
As love gives life to worlds without restriction,
Good truths are often truer born from fiction.
Alles Vergängliche ist nur ein Gleichnis;
Das Ewig-Weibliche zieht uns hinan.
Her smooth torso
one must draw a bow
how round her
can open up
and auburn crown
when brought together tune
securely fastened pegs
their pressure holding perpendicular
a bridge strung low
below the belly
The human voice
from off of
tensile strands strung
up a long throat
a neck one must lay
No senseless fool
could not want
Her whose hips were made
to hug thighs,
resonate through the mounted body
where screw-taut white-gold hair
wakes the air with somatic pulsation
lifting near human voices
under the weight of intention
as if being muse-sick altered altitude
She will be played
brain embodied and
trained to know
where pressure should be
Trill out her long vibrato
until closed eyes
stop clenching against intention
and see what is heard
held in diminishing, long stroke rubatto
stealing time’s ride through the temporal lobe.
You held my hand and smiled sweet,
then led me on past sense and reason,
and soaring up a million feet
I saw the root of every season,
the Tyger’s eye, a clod and pebble,
a poison tree, an answered question.
At once I wished I weren’t the rebel
tossing out design’s suggestion.
Inheriting a modern view
without some guiding love or hope
gives me nothing, nothing new;
my mind—a blacked-out telescope.
But you are kind and wash my lens
so I may read each lighted star,
whose beams pour down on earth to cleanse
enlightened souls who wander far.
Wordless thoughts, will: dance and dream—
burning light with its own flame
risen from the blood, like cream,
un-leaded— without pounds of shame.
The strain of reason, sieve of fact,
catches nothing with holey hands—
but drinks the gold mind would subtract:
veins stop flowing when fixed in bands.
Value grows in nature’s purse—
Psyche’s long gestation—draws
itself from coffers which disburse
itself among its nature’s laws.